


Cruel Hands

by rairai



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gallavich, Hands, Holding Hands, Ian x Mickey - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:32:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rairai/pseuds/rairai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble exploring Mickey + holding Ian's hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruel Hands

Mickey was a coward. Unwaveringly, decidedly, he knew this. He was a coward for letting his father chisel into him, bit by bit, until he was a carving he hated. He was a coward for refusing to just be happy living with Svetlana and bringing up Yevgeny like the rest of the south side kids, in a violent and resentful home, learning to shoot a gun fresh out of the womb.

Mostly, he was a coward for not holding Ian Gallagher’s hand.

They’d been alone in Mickey’s cramped empty house on a Tuesday night. They’d kissed tenderly and fucked roughly on Mickey’s single bed - and afterwards, breathing hard, Ian had slithered across and wrapped himself around Mickey’s curled body, constricting Mickey’s breathing as he felt his heart beat faster like it always did when Ian touched him. Then Ian’s fingers had dipped across his stomach and reached to intertwine with FUCK U-UP and Mickey had flinched away, broken out of the warmth, touched hot tingling feet to cold floor. Ran the fuck away.

Mickey didn’t know what it was about his hands, but they always shook when he imagined holding Ian. They were rough and violent, only good for fighting and shooting and smoking. They were puckered with scars and cigarette stains and the hard letters of his tattoos. They were stumpy and angry. He never knew what to do with them. During sex with Ian he would curl them into fists by his sides or grab at the sheets or bite down on them roughly to stifle his moans. Ian had delicate, long fingers and freckles on his knuckles and fine red hairs dotting his veins. Mickey hated how different their hands were.

***

One morning Mickey half-woke to Ian tracing FUCK U-UP lightly, with one delicate finger. Mickey pulled away and opened his eyes and Ian frowned lazily down at him, eyebrows dipping. “Hey!” he said. “Give that back.”

“I’m trying to sleep.” It was a good enough excuse. Never mind that the feel of Ian’s feather-light touch had sent tingles all the way up his spine.

Ian grabbed for Mickey’s hand, snaking his arm around his boyfriend’s waist. “Please? Why don’t you like me touching your hands? You let me kiss you. You let me do this…” He palmed at Mickey’s crotch and then cruelly broke away completely. “How come, Mick?”

Mickey was wide awake. “I don’t like them,” he said simply. He wanted to say they were too violent for the space between them. That they trembled whenever Ian touched him. That they were dirty and crude and scarred, revealing what Mickey knew he was deep down: cruel, violent, angry. Not what Ian Gallagher deserved.

Ian huffed and turned away. Mickey bit back his words.

***

Ian was drunk. The meds did that sometimes; made him loud and giggly and even more touchy-feely than usual. They were walking along Mickey’s street together, their arms around each other, basking in post-coital laziness and what Mickey guessed was probably love. Ian was yammering away about nothing in particular and Mickey was listening to the sound of his voice.

They passed a streetlamp and Ian’s crazy sex hair was glowing and Mickey was already pressed up against Ian’s side but all he wanted to do was get closer, get under Ian’s skin, curl up inside his chest and sleep there forever. He settled for grabbing his hand, moving tentatively at first and then, when Ian didn’t react, squeezing tighter.

Ian was staring straight ahead, as if any movement would spook Mickey. But Mickey was too far gone in the feeling and he knew he would never take his hand away.

“You’re holding my hand!” Ian sputtered, a smile spreading across his face. “Mickey’s  _holding my hand!”_ His words hit the quiet houses lining the street and Mickey didn’t give a shit, didn’t even blink an eye, just held on tighter.

***

And maybe next time, Mickey would do it when they were both sober, when they were lying in bed together and Ian told him, stupidly, that he loved him. He would entwine his fingers in between Ian’s, show him that those fingers could be tender and soft and unpredictable. That his hands could be good enough for Ian Gallagher.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at carllgallagher.tumblr.com :)


End file.
